Edward Marston - Ticket to Oblivion

Summer, 1858

As the landau rolled on through the Worcestershire countryside, the passengers were unusually quiet. Vernon Tolley was surprised. When the coachman had driven them to the railway station before, there’d been continuous conversation. The piercing voice of Lady Burnhope had always risen effortlessly above the clip-clop of the horses and the scrunching of the wheels on the hard track. Without her characteristic bray to listen to, there’d be no gossip for Tolley to share with the other servants when he got back to Burnhope Manor. Though he strained his ears, he could pick up nothing from those behind him. Because it was the first time she’d made this journey without her mother, he’d expected Imogen Burnhope to be excitedly talkative. The trip to Oxford was in the nature of an adventure for her yet it produced no cheerful banter between Imogen and her maid. She and Rhoda Wills were apparently content to do little more than exchange smiles, converse with gestures and enjoy the beauty of the landscape.

Imogen was a striking young woman of twenty with a shapely figure, a natural elegance and a face of such exaggerated loveliness that it turned the heads of men and women alike. Even when partially hidden beneath a poke bonnet trimmed with flowers, her features were arresting. Rhoda, by contrast, cut a more homely figure, pleasantly plain and with a body that could best be described as endearingly plump. Ten years older than her companion, she was as much a trusted friend as a servant. When they were alone together in the back of the landau, the barriers between them were removed in a way that the haughty Lady Burnhope would never have tolerated.

It was only when Shrub Hill station came into sight that Imogen spoke aloud.

‘We’ve got here!’ she said with relief. ‘I had this dreadful feeling that Mother would change her mind at the last moment and either come with us or insist that we abandoned the visit altogether.’

‘Lady Burnhope is in no fit state to travel,’ Rhoda reminded her. ‘You heard what the doctor advised. She’s to have complete rest.’

‘Mother would have preferred it if I’d stayed to look after her.’

‘She has servants to do that — not to mention Sir Marcus.’

Imogen stifled a bitter laugh. ‘Father is hopeless at looking after anyone,’ she said. ‘Whenever I was ill as a child, he never came anywhere near me. He’s wedded to politics. The only thing that concerns him is his next speech to Parliament.’ The town clock chimed and she brightened instantly. ‘That’s eleven o’clock. We got here in perfect time.’

‘You can always rely on Vernon. He never lets us down.’

Tolley savoured the compliment. Socially and otherwise, the tall, graceful Imogen was totally beyond his reach and the most that he could do was to steal an admiring glance at her. Rhoda, however, was a very different matter. He found her appealing, warm-hearted and delightfully companionable. More to the point, she came from the same stock as himself. A few years older than her, Tolley had nurtured hopes for some time. Rhoda had kept him politely at arm’s length until now but he was prepared to wait.

When he brought the landau to a halt outside the station, he beckoned a porter over and indicated the luggage. While the man began to unload it, Tolley jumped down onto the pavement so that he could open the carriage door, flip down the step and help the passengers to alight. He felt only the lightest of touches as Imogen held his hand but, when it was her turn, Rhoda gave his fingers a squeeze of gratitude reinforced with a smile. He would have fond memories of both on the drive back home.

Opened in 1850, Shrub Hill still had an air of novelty about it for Imogen and Rhoda. Regular travellers in Worcester might take their station for granted but that was not the case with the two women. The only time they ever got to see the compact shape of Shrub Hill was on their twice-yearly visits to Oxford. For the most part, their lives were circumscribed by the limits of the Burnhope estate and, generous as those limits undoubtedly were, they could nevertheless resemble the confines of a wooded prison. As they adjourned to the comfort and privacy of the waiting room, Imogen and Rhoda both experienced a sense of release. They were free.

Under the direction of Tolley, the porter positioned himself at a point on the platform where the first-class carriages would stop. Though it stretched for less than ninety miles between its termini, the Oxford, Worcester and Wolverhampton Railway had, in its relatively short existence, been a boon to those within reach of one of its many stations and halts. In this instance, however, it was only serving the three major communities. Having set off from the industrial haze of Wolverhampton, the express train was due to make a single stop at Shrub Hill before powering on to Oxford General station. It was late but punctuality had never been the company’s strongpoint. In fact, the OWWR had been plagued by problems since its inception and a woeful timekeeping record was only one of them. As soon as he heard the train’s clamorous approach, Tolley strode quickly across to the waiting room to alert Imogen and Rhoda. They were on their feet at once and followed him down the platform to where their luggage stood. The porter tipped his hat to them.

The train steadily lost speed as it clanked into the station. Imogen was thrilled to see the name on the locomotive’s boiler — Will Shakspere . In the past, she’d been lucky enough to see some of Shakespeare’s plays performed and had studied others when educated by a governess with literary inclinations. There was also a more personal reason why Shakespeare had a special place in her heart. A locomotive that bore a variant of his name was a good omen. She couldn’t wait to get aboard.

The porter had intended to ingratiate himself by opening the door of an empty compartment for them but Tolley reserved that task for himself, darting forward the moment that the train came to a halt. Before Imogen stepped aboard, she asked for the valise to be put inside the compartment. The porter was told to put the heavier luggage on the roof. Tolley took the liberty of putting an arm around Rhoda’s waist as he eased her into the carriage and he was rewarded with a second smile. Having secured the luggage on the rack above, the porter joined him and beamed when Imogen reached out to press a coin into his hand. A second coin was given to Tolley who touched his forelock in acknowledgement. Imogen resumed her seat, leaving the porter to close the door and gaze in wonderment at her through the window.

‘She gets prettier every time I sees her,’ he observed with a sigh.

‘Yes,’ said Tolley, eyes fixed on Rhoda, ‘that she does.’

There was a slamming of doors, a cacophony of hissing steam, belching smoke, raised voices and rattling carriages, then Will Shakspere headed off on the fifty-seven mile run to Oxford. Vernon Tolley stood there until the train vanished from sight, his mind filled with promising thoughts of Rhoda Wills. Desire stirred in his breast. He vowed that she would one day be his. As he sauntered back to his carriage, he was quite unaware of the significant part he’d just played in her life.

Cassandra Vaughan was impatient at the best of times and the delay made her even tetchier. Standing on the platform at Oxford General station, she peered angrily down the line as if demanding that the train appear. Cassandra was a middle-aged woman of middle height and a spreading girth that was cleverly concealed by her dressmaker. Handsome in repose, she looked quite forbidding when roused. Her daughter, Emma, stood meekly beside her. She was a slim, self-effacing young woman with something of her mother’s features but none of her outspokenness.